


After Baker Street

by After_Baker_Street



Series: After Baker Street [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Depression, Diary/Journal, Established Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Poetic, Post Reichenbach, Pregnancy, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/After_Baker_Street/pseuds/After_Baker_Street
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Baker Street is the new, private blog of Dr. John Watson, started after the death of his friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes. Follow him as he learns to readjust to a world without Sherlock Holmes. Watson's blog entries are poignant, illustrating the difficulties of continuing life after the dramatic loss of a loved one.</p><p>In this first collection of blog entries, Dr. Watson documents his return to the depression and loneliness he was lost in before he met Sherlock, the challenges of missing his closest companion, and the complications of learning the shocking news that his friend Molly Hooper is carrying the child of his enemy - Jim Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Volume 1

**Author's Note:**

> I met Dr. John Watson in Afghanistan, serving as a nurse. Those times sped by, but we maintained a cordial, if formal relationship after his injury and subsequent return to London.
> 
> After the death of his colleague, Sherlock Holmes, I contacted him to offer my condolences. To my surprise, he was even more distant than before, but later linked me directly to his private blog. He started over again, on a new blog, after the popularity and scandal of the previous blog made it a national spectacle.
> 
> I share his updates here, with his permission. They are only to be shared by those who know him, so please do not release the password to this site to anyone, especially any members of the press.
> 
> As I’m sure many of us can imagine, life becomes both difficult and complex after the death of a loved one. Dr. Watson shares his thoughts and feelings as a therapeutic exercise, and also in the hopes that they may aid others in a similar situation.

> Everything must start again anew  
>  Everything just goes that way my friend  
>  Every king knows it to be true  
>  That every kingdom must one day come to an end  
>  \- Ben Howard " _Everything_ "

_[The following is a selection from the personal blog of Dr. John Watson, shared here with his permission. It is password protected, and only to be distributed to friends, family, and colleagues. I share releases from Dr. Watson’s blog at afterbakerstreet.tumblr.com]_

**************

****

It’s strange, how time goes all funny after. It’s only been weeks, really. But God, it seems ages. Or just moments ago.

*

I started this blog because the blog I’d used for our cases really was overrun after. Personal blog no longer, it seems. I’ve shared this link around a bit, and the password. Guess I’m starting over with this theraputic blog. And somehow, it feels like starting over, starting everything over. But there is no starting over after Sherlock. And nothing’s the same. I have my doubts anything will be the same.

Tea with Molly, she’s not taking it well. Our conversations were punctuated by her nearly saying something, then stopping herself. She was quiet, but I suppose we all deserve to go our own way about all this. We never said his name. For the most part, the media have left her alone, but she did let slip that she’s called off work a few weeks.

I keep thinking that somehow, if I could figure out what’d happened up on the roof…

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

 

I’m not even sure I want to be doing this. It’s supposed to help, right?

But how? How will it help? I owe him so much, everything. After I’d been invalided, I sometimes felt as though I had died, in a way. And then I met Sherlock.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

 

Returning from a long walk, I found Mycroft standing in the doorway, saying his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson. Funny, that. Especially considering I had hardly left the flat for days. Following what was quite possibly the least sincere offer to stay for tea (coming from me, of course), Mycroft begged off and turned to go without looking me in the eye.

Mrs. Hudson walked up with me, despite that hip paining her as bad as ever.

“John, Mycroft has gone and given me far too much to take care of the flat. I was just going to put his things in storage. Now with all this, I won’t be needing to let it for ages.”

I had never known Mycroft Holmes to be a generous man, and not especially fond of Mrs. Hudson. Perhaps a parting gift, a gift of affection that would have never been accepted in life.

Realizing with a start that Mrs. Hudson expected me to say something, “Yes, well, I suppose I’ll have my things out…”

She took my arm. I thought she was steadying herself. Instead, she was steadying me.

“Oh no, dear, this is your home.”

And in that moment, I realized how empty and quiet the flat was, even with the both of us there.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

**My last and only statement about Sherlock Holmes:**

There’s so many of them now; geniuses and lunatics on the internet, meeting in cafes. All these groups that spend so many hours figuring out how Sherlock did it, how he fooled us all. Fooled them all, at least.

They share their stories, feeling at last that they’ve outsmarted the clever Sherlock Holmes. They feel like they’ve taken down a hero. But Sherlock was never a hero, he was just…They guess, the lot of them. And they write books and stupid little magazine articles. I got hundreds of calls, thousands of emails. If the old blog hadn’t been locked down, it’d be flooded with comments. I don’t respond; I never do.

But on one of my late night rambles, I found only these words, spray-painted across an alley wall: I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES

I laughed. If Sherlock had known he’d become some sort of counter-cultural slogan, he’d have laughed too. I nearly walked away, but I took out a pen and then and there, issued the only statement I’ll ever give to the public about Sherlock Holmes.

He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him.

And I walked home, the sound of the words burning in my chest: I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES. I felt, simultaneously, more and less alone than I had since my last day with him.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

 

Another night on the sofa, watching Doctor Who and crap telly ‘til I fall asleep.

The phone rings, or it doesn’t. I answer it, or I don’t.

I get texts, I still find myself thinking they’re from him.

Lestrade came over last night, no, night before last. Looking for some case files he’d given to Sherlock, hoping for some insight. The files were spread in the most disorderly fashion, half of them pinned to the wall with notes we couldn’t begin to decipher. One was still in the folder, the word “obvious” scrawled over it. We had a chuckle over that, and the chuckle became a laugh when Lestrade said “not to me it isn’t” and the laugh became that damned sort of hysterics you can’t stop because you haven’t laughed for ages, and it keeps getting funnier the more you try to stop. “Obvious?” I said as I gasped for breath “Not to anyone else on this planet!”

We finally got ourselves together, and he asks me “What’ll you do, now?” Now that Sherlock Holmes is dead, he means. I tell him I don’t know, and I think I’ll give him the same story I give everyone else, that it’ll be fine, I’ll get it sorted and figure out something. But he knew Sherlock, knows you don’t just go on, after. He asks if I’d like to look over a few cold cases he’s had lying around, ones that could use my “unique perspective.” I can’t tell if there’s pity in his voice, but it sure sounds like a kindness. And it’s like being shot in the gut.

But I say yes, of course.

Because the truth is - I’m bored.

_\- John Watson [Date Redacted]  
_

**************

****

**How long has it been?**

If it’s quiet in the flat I sometimes think that maybe, when I turn around, he’ll be sleeping just there on the sofa.

I’m not sure, precisely, how long it’s healthy to go on feeling like that.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

**Cardboard and Ash**

Mrs. Hudson came up, just last night, and we cleaned the kitchen. Of course, she reminded me that she wasn’t the housekeeper, just helping one of “her boys after a loss.”

But that’s how I feel - lost.

I’ve no idea what half that stuff was; funny bags full of things even I couldn’t identify, unlabeled slides. It was hardest, though, when I found one with a note attached - Lestrade, I’ll come back to this.

I’ll come back to this

I’ll come back

I chucked that one in the bin faster than I would have liked because Mrs. Hudson was eying me closely.

Mrs. Hudson had quite a fright when she found a stack of photos under the toaster documenting insect infestation in decomposing bodies. I cleaned out more flasks than I figured we had, half of them - or more - nicked from St. Barts. He’d squirreled away more forensics equipment from there than I felt comfortable discarding, so I called Molly, hoping she could smuggle it back in to inventory without too much of a fuss.

Mrs. Hudson rattled on, as she does, asking about this and that, giving me a rough talk about losing weight. I promised to eat more, never saying that everything tasted of cardboard and ash.

When we were done, he was gone, forever, from one more room.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

**Like I'm Dying in Parts**

Last night or maybe the night before, I was watching telly whilst half-asleep. My stupid mouth had already half-shouted

“Sherlock, is that you?” before my brain registered the sound was actually coming from the bedroom, not the door.

But we’ve had our share of break-ins, especially after. Loonies from the internet, souvenir hunters, criminals Sherlock had done in, even a very motivated journo or two. So I drew my weapon at the hushed sound of scraping coming from behind the door, which was just cracked open.

“Whoever you are, don’t move!” I kicked the door open hard enough that it popped back into my shoulder. At the same time, the soft scratching sound became a crunch, as the poster of the periodic table crumpled behind the door.

It had fallen part-way down with the snap that had woken me, and the scratching I’d heard was just the sound of the paper brushing against the wall.

“Fighting paper dragons now, are we?” I asked Sherlock’s empty room as my knees gave out, the surge of adrenaline beginning to fade. I sat with a nervous chortle that choked and died, strangled in my throat as I realized where I was.

Sherlock’s room. I was sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, beside the dressing gown he’d tossed there. I felt the fine silk begin to find its way into the fist that tightened on it’s own. And I shouted again, for him. And he would not answer, would never answer.

**Before I met Sherlock, it was like I’d never lived. Now it feels like I’m dying in parts.**

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

**Molly Hooper, Again**

Night into day, day into night. Somehow, always feels like twilight in the flat, since I’ve been here on my own.

*

I saw Molly Hooper again. Lestrade said she wasn’t looking well, and I found the same. She hadn’t returned my calls - strange behavior from a girl like her.

So I showed up at St. Barts with the box of stuff Sherlock had nicked from the lab. I’d once felt at home there, now a dark seething feeling, somewhere between anger and nostalgia gripped me tight. I found her working, distracted. She didn’t hear me come in. I gave an idiotic false cough as I set down the overfilled box. She put aside what was in her hands, turned my way. She didn’t expect me, that much was clear. I saw in her what I saw in the mirror most days - a haunted look, her face drawn and white.

I swear she looked at me for half a minute before she finally gave a thin little smile. She hugged me close, but she felt all wrong. Molly, usually so slim, was painfully thin and yet swollen and strange to me. Like she’d aged, the lines of her face seemed heavy and careworn. She felt warm, but she was layered in so many heavy jumpers I knew she must be freezing.

She wiped back miscreant tears as she hugged me again,

“John, John, I’m so sorry I didn’t call, but things have been…”

Her voice was high and lost, like a little girl. As she smoothed her hair, ran her hands down her lab coat, I recognized the strange fit of her jumpers. I knew I should react, say something, but the dark rings under her eyes warned me not to. So I stood there, awkward. And she went on.

“John, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to see you.” Her voice was splintered and steely.

Clever girl, that Molly. Already deduced so much from that millisecond’s hesitation.

“What, no. Why? I’m glad to see you, you look lovely, really. I’m sorry I haven’t come by before now. I brought some stuff that Sherlock um…borrowed. Just returning it…” I gestured stupidly to the box I’d set on the lab table as I gathered enormous will to stop myself from blathering on.

The lights seemed unbearably bright, glaringly white. Molly’s hands pulled at the hem of her skirt. She looked at my neck, the door behind me, my hair, anywhere but in my eyes.

The dread and darkness that seemed to gnaw at me constantly suddenly leapt to my throat.

Our voices seemed wandering and small in the lab, the sharp smell of those chemicals grew and tore at me.

“What, what’s happened, Molly?”

She tilted her head, strangely, her eyes narrowing, searching me to figure out what I already knew.

But I knew nothing.

“Oh, John, I’m pregnant.”

I had a false half smile ready, already making its way to the top.

“I wanted to tell you, it’s Jim’s.”

“Wha-?” And the realization hit me hard, somewhere behind the eyes.

“It’s Jim’s. Jim Moriarty. He came to see me, before…”

And she started to slip from her stool, to take a step towards me, but fell instead.

Before she hit the ground, my arms were around her.

Somehow, I got her to tea, to a stale jam donut in the cafeteria. And supportive, stupid words fell from me. We shared harsh, false laughter. But I could see some of the weight was gone from her. I made promises to check in on her, to remember to call.

I’m not sure how I got home, I mustn’t’ve walked - it was too far, but I can’t remember taking a cab and I’d left my Oyster card at home.

As I unlocked the door, made my way up that quite staircase, I knew one thing for certain - I must never see Molly Hooper again.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

**Find me in the Dark**

Life seemed so damn bleak until he found me, until Sherlock found me.

But when that bright light, that bomb going off illuminated the world, it dazzled me. Now that I’m left in the dark, I’m blind.

And he can’t find me again.

But before I fall asleep, before I wake in the grey mornings, I find that wish burning a hole out of me, tearing away somewhere:

**Find me, find me again.**

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

I would follow you anywhere, Sherlock. Into darkness, into fire and flood.

Why would you go where I can’t follow?

\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]

**************

****

 

Too many long walks at night, I suppose. The limp, the damn limp is back.

Now I still go, still walk much further than I’d intended. But I bring my cane, and the going is much slower.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

 

I see him.

I see him everywhere.

And it’s been weeks, ages…since he was gone.

I see a dark coat, a turned-up collar, and I follow it ‘round the corner. It’s usually nothing, no one. I make a fool of myself, tap the shoulder of a tall man flagging a taxi.

It’s not him.

It never is.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

 

It’s all true. I don’t care what he said, not then, not at the end. I saw him. I saw him work, I know him. I knew him.

You don’t do what people do, Sherlock.

*

Ah, damn.

Sometimes I find myself standing by the desk, and I’m not sure how long I’ve been there. Wintery twilight is fading, but I can’t recall how I passed the day.

This flat is full of ghosts and I’m one of them.

\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]

**************

****

 

I still dream about it, you know. Being back there. The war.

Except now he’s there too, Sherlock is there. And he’s jumping, he’s falling.

And I can’t stop him. Any of them. They die, I can’t do anything to stop it. They all die, they slip away beneath my hands. I see myself reach for him, feel for a pulse - willing him to life. But it’s so loud, the ground is shaking. I try to shout for help.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

**************

****

 

Though I said I wouldn’t, I saw Molly again. She came to the flat, all nervous laughter, and insisted on taking me out for lunch. I’d hardly noticed it wasn’t morning, I’ve been sleeping so much these days.

We didn’t talk about Sherlock. He was already behind every sideways glance we stole, looking for how we really felt, beneath all the small talk.

She seems tired. She said I looked good, but her smile never went to her eyes and betrayed the lie.

I thought I’d say something, when she mentioned the baby again. She needed to tell me how she’d gotten pregnant, so I listened, nodding at all the right places (I hope). She tried to tell me how Jim Moriarty had seen her again, found her at the pub with her mates. How she’d asked him to leave, but somehow woke up with him in the morning. She thought maybe she’d had too many, or been drugged.

But I knew Jim Moriarty. His words were poison, and he could bend reality somehow with them. It wouldn’t have taken drugs to get Molly home, just the right combination of words. Ones that would press hard against her loneliness.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_


	2. After Baker Street, Volume 2

I see him, sometimes. Wreathed in flame, or beneath dark waters. Waking dreams that haunt me everywhere I go.  
  
I should shake my head, clear him away. But instead, I follow these dark fantasies.  
  
Sometimes the flat is not enough and on my walks (looking for him, really), I search out the places we knew. And I’ll remember something I’d forgotten: the turn of a story, the light filtering through a broken window.  
  
And then, just then, he’s alive again. He’s with me.  
  
But I know it’s wrong. On the way back home, the guilt that runs through me tears down that joy. By the time I get back to the flat I’m disgusted enough to try to say to myself that  
  
 ** _it’s time to move on._**  
  
  
 _\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

 

_  
**********_

I think I have started to learn, over a long time, how to really see - how to observe. Flashes of insight come to me at a crime scene, or when I’m reviewing the files Lestrade sends over.  
  
Occasionally a single left mitten can slowly light a whole web of leads and clues. I have Sherlock to thank for that. But it does not come to me like it came to him. The world isn’t tied with dynamic threads I can see at a glance; instead, I struggle, I look out of the corner of my eye for those shimmering connections.  
  
I imagine his voice in my head - questioning, criticizing. That way I am sure before I open my mouth, that way I can put Anderson in his place at least once in a little while.  
  
And it is good for me. I crave the sour tang of adrenaline at the back of my throat. I feel alive again, if only momentarily.

  
_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

 

_  
**********_

If I had it to do over again, I would. Even now.  
  
I do what must be done; I get up and face the day - face whatever comes next. I am a soldier and I soldier on.  
  
It isn’t “putting on a brave face” - it’s my only face. My only option.  
  
I make meals for one, eat them standing over the sink. I reread books I finished years ago because I can’t recall what they were about. I am surprised, occasionally, by the flashes of clarity that come to me when I’m working. When I hear Sherlock’s voice in my head I know I’m on to something, or straying dangerously off course. When I do hear that voice some part of me wants to thank him. Or hate him. I haven’t quite figured out which.  
  
Poor Molly, I saw her again not long ago. She has none of the healthy glow you’d expect of one expecting. She mentioned her parents asking her to come home, away from the big city. To settle back down in that tiny village she’s from, and they’d help her raise the wee one on the way. But she says she can never go back, that she’ll never leave London. They had quite a row over it and separated on bad terms. She later mentions that most days she only gets up because of work, and feels guilty that she doesn’t feel that way because of the baby. I find myself checking her for signs of drink, of drugs.  
  
She never talks about Sherlock if she can help it. She builds tiny, quick fantasies for me - of her and this child, the child of the man that killed my best friend. She says she’s always wanted to be a mum, but not this way. But we make do with what the world gives us. It is easy to be kind to sweet Molly, and kindness is what I can give her. Words come easy, especially if I know what needs to be said.  
  
 _\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

 

_  
**********_

_  
_Found this stuffed in a book:

 

> **Cause and effect**   
> **\- Charles Bukowski**   
>   
> **the best often die by their own hand**   
> **just to get away,**   
> **and those left behind**   
> **can never quite understand**   
> **why anybody**   
> **would ever want to**   
> **get away**   
> **from**   
> **them**

Every day finds new ways to hurt.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

 

_**********_

Half the time I write something here, I delete it. So I do what Ella says I should - I go to my desk, I write long letters to Sherlock I can never send. I start out telling him how things are going, what it’s like in the flat without him. I tell him about Molly. I ask for his help. But every letter heads in the same direction, eventually.  
  
I tell him ~~how I miss him~~ how nothing’s the same. I tell him what I should have said, that I would have helped save him from anything, even that monster Moriarty. That I never, ever doubted him.  
  
And when it feels like I’ve spilt my soul out on paper, when I’m shaking, angry and lonely, that’s when I guess I’m done. So I pile another letter on the stack. And I lock the stack in a drawer in my desk, because even I don’t want those letters out.  
  


  
I talk to him, sometimes.  
  
When I’m alone in the flat. Or on my walks. Sometimes, even when I’m on a case, though I try to remember to keep my mouth shut on at the crime scene.  
  
I just need him to be listening.  
  
 _\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

 

__**********_ _

Got a text from a surprising source. Molly Hooper. Asking me to come over. I made my excuses, of course. But she kept texting.

  
**_come over i want to talk i promise its not_ **

  
**_john lets just have a drink_ **

  
**_how logn have you nown me and dont even know where m flat is?_ **

then finally

**_i know you miss him_ **

So I put on my jacket and make my way over. The door’s open a crack, so I let myself in. Such a tiny, sweet place. Molly all over. Funny paintings of birds on the walls. I would have never guessed.

She’s on the sofa, her face is contorted strangely. Been crying. When she looks up, she says desperately “I’m sorry, John. God knows I’m so sorry.”

She gasps painfully, half sob, half cough.

“I loved him, you know that, don’t you?” And she’s crying, that spectacular sort of crying you can’t hold back. She’s curled over herself as well as she can with that growing belly. I search quickly for signs of bottles, for paraphernalia. Is Molly the sort of girl that does that sort of thing?

No, this is genuine. This is just emotion. I sit next to her. Pat her back. These are the things you do for the people you care for. Sherlock spent part of his last day with her.

Some part of me prays he was kind, that he wasn’t cruel to her, thoughtlessly - as he usually was.

_Did he say goodbye to her before he went up to the roof?_ I’ve never considered it before. I don’t want to know. His last words were to me. His note.

She recovers a bit after a while. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Why does she feel so guilty? Stupid question, I feel it too. I would have done anything to stop him too.

I wonder, briefly, if Sherlock knew. He saw her in those final hours, he must have known she was pregnant. Did he say anything? Did he feel betrayed that she was carrying the child of the man who he knew would kill him? I know I feel betrayed.

But I don’t hold it against sweet Molly. I stay too late. We talk. I make tea. We even laugh. I have the feeling she hasn’t done much of that lately. When she finally goes to bed, late - too late, I walk home.

And I wonder how long ‘til the both of us drown in grief.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

 

___**********_ _ _

Went out again, with the girl from the office - Mary. Everything feels strange when I’m with her. She’s not the sort of girl that makes men stop and stare, but she’s so alive.

A lot of messy dark hair, a smile that lights up something in me, something dark. I tell her about living alone and those eyes just take me in, and she knows. She knows what it’s like. To be alone. To be hurt in ways that don’t have names.

Doesn’t mind the limp, in fact, it might as well not be there. She asked me about it, quite directly, then didn’t mention it again.

She’s clever, terribly clever. Wreathes me in words and makes me stop thinking. When she invited me up, I went. She never said a word, either, when she was taking me to bed and something took hold of me. Something that made my throat grow tight, felt like I’d turned to stone.

I left, excuses half-formed, poorly made. Texted her the next day. Told her it wasn’t going to work, it couldn’t work. She was understanding.

Things were awkward at the surgery for a while, then a few days later I heard her talking about another bloke.

And so it goes. Back to nights alone, those few hours with her burning behind me. Back to grey, long twilight walks.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

____  
**********_ _ _ _

This is how I live. I cancel my sessions with Ella. Tell her work keeps me busy. She says to keep in touch. I know I won’t. As if an hour in her office could make any of this easier.  
  
I’d give it a name, but it doesn’t have one. A sense of the world gone all wrong, the ragged edges where he should be raw and never healing. So I turn from them, and I keep turning. But his memory, I keep it. I keep it burning and alive in me.  
  
At a crime scene, beneath the bills plastering a dark alley the words

**I believe in Sherlock Holmes: Moriarty was Real**

Oh aye, my silent friend. He was. Times like these I think he may have been the most real thing I’ve ever known. I worry he’ll be more real than Sherlock one day. That I’ll be able to remember the smell of chlorine and see the flash of laser sights easier than I remember how this flat smelled when he was here.  
  
I lose a little of him every day.  


____\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_  
_ _ _

_____  
**********_ _ _ _ _

Funny how your memories get all mixed up. I was down at the pub a few nights ago, sitting by myself. Saw a tall bloke, shirtsleeves pushed up. At one point he laid his arm across the table, reaching for his mate’s drink. And it came back to me, just like that.  
  
Had I been visiting Harry that weekend, she must have been on the outs with Clara again. No, it was the stag party in Dublin. Didn’t realize I hadn’t heard from Sherlock ‘til Saturday night, late. Not a single text. Time was, it’d been a relief, but this wasn’t. Ever the worrier, I worried. Texted him myself, despite saying I wouldn’t.  
  
No response, of course. Couldn’t be arsed to cross the room for his mobile, or some nonsense like that. Probably called for me for hours trying to get me to, forgetting I was away the whole weekend. So I put it away, as I do. Considered, briefly, calling Mrs. Hudson, risk his everlasting ire for getting her to knock when he was in the middle of prancing around his mind palace.  
  
So I let it be. Finally came home, knackered, Sunday night. Too late. The worry had been growing steadily beneath my thoughts all that time. I called for him, nearly shouted, at the foot of the stairs.  
  
All the lights were out, was he on a case? No, I saw a flicker of movement in the lamplight streaming in from outside. Just his long, pale arm, laid out on the arm of the sofa. The rest of him was in shadow. My eyes were working to adjust. His sleeves were rolled up, carefully. And in that bluish light, I could see the scars, the trackmarks he normally kept hidden under those posh button-downs. They were so faint, so tiny it was almost as though I could have imagined them. But there were so many. Something like disgust, and then fear, rose up. A flash of nausea.  
  
And so the sight of that long, pale arm in the blue light set of an explosion buried deep somewhere in me. I swallowed it down, called his name again. He shifted, barely, in his seat, slowly rolled down his cuff.  
  
And that was that. I never said a word about it.  
  
Staring at a strange man in a pub, I find myself wishing I had.  


_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

__  
**********_ _

Woke in a snowdrift of paper - the files I’d been reading before I fell asleep. Mobile vibrating in my pocket, Molly Hooper.  
  
Lunch in a sunny cafe, she’s thrilled to see me, full of laughs and lots of conversation. When I ask her about work, she goes a bit darker. Says she’s only on part time, things have just been too difficult. I nearly ask what “things” but then it’s clear, she’s putting on a show for me. All smiles and brightness, our sweet Molly. Everything’s difficult these days. So I just nod and we go on.  
  
I’ve seen a lot of her these past weeks, two or three times last week alone. She’s lonely, it doesn’t hurt me to have a conversation now and again either. We have a cup of tea, pretend everything’s fine.  
  
I never tell her I sometimes wake at night, hope I hear his footsteps on the stairs.

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

_  
**********_

I don’t sleep. It’s better than dreaming.  
  
The days pass in a blur. Hours at the surgery, days on a case, weeks reviewing Greg Lestrade’s files. A life filled to bursting with activity, but I feel like I’m standing still, that the world is passing all around me. I check my phone for texts. Try to remember there won’t ever be any new texts.  
  
I have my tea, I read the papers. I try to avoid thinking too much, otherwise that gnawing in my gut grows out of control and I stop wanting to move, stop wanting to think at all. But I can’t always turn it off. Being with Sherlock does that to you, it changes the way you think. Forever, it looks like. I think, sometimes, that must be how he felt. That it was always too much, too much thinking, too much input. And he could never turn it off. That sort of thinking only makes it worse, makes for a strange bit of heartache late at night.  
  
So I put on my coat, go out for walks. Take the damn cane. _  
_

_\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_

_  
**********_

  
Molly again. This time lunch, a walk. A bit of shopping as we talk. She’s full of smiles and awkwardness, sweet Molly. She buys baby things, asks my opinion. It’s not long now.  
  
I want to ask her what it’s like to know she’ll always a living link to the man that killed Sherlock. Because I know he did. I can’t work out how, but I’m sure of it. Will I be able to look at her wee one and know that her (or his?, I haven’t asked) father is the one that strapped Semtex to me?  
  
But I don’t ask, of course. We talk about the good things, about my work. I tell her stories from the surgery, retelling them to make them funnier, more lighthearted. Everyone survives.  
  
She tells me her family isn’t coming back, tells her they won’t come to visit when the baby’s born. I know without asking there aren’t really many friends to help. I think of our Molly, alone - a single mum. And it kills me. Because if anyone deserves kindness and love and support, it’s probably Molly.  
  
So the orbit of my life closes in on Molly. Help her put together the flat-pack cot in pastel colors. Remind her about the prenatal checks she keeps missing. Pretend not to notice when she comes to the door and her face is swollen and her eyes red.  
  
Our stories find their way back to Sherlock. She never says much about him, but when I mention him, she says again and again, “I wish things were different,” her hand on my arm, her voice small and soft.  
  
 _\- John Watson [DATE REDACTED]_


End file.
